Tarnished Ivory
by Yavie Feels Pretty
Summary: AU, Book-verse. In which Frodo makes a very different decision and Boromir finds himself slipping even further into temptation. Rated for safety.
1. On the River

**Tarnished Ivory**

_By Yavie

* * *

_

**Disclaimer: **Sadly enough, none of Tolkien's work is of my imagination. I merely… borrowed it. Without permission. He doesn't have to know.

**A.N.:**Well, here we stand again. It feels good to be back in the Lord of the Rings fandom… It's been a while. Please, enjoy. Oh! A few notes, to begin with.

1. Ah… It's rather difficult to fit any story within the confines of Tolkien's work and still stay true to what he wrote, so I'm not going to be particularly specific about their journey on the River. I didn't want to stay too long in this portion of the story. I also realize that I have problems with using too much dialogue to tell my stories.

2. **This story is in no way bashing Boromir**! It is simply the story of his battle with temptation. If you want Boromir-bashing, look elsewhere.

3. I'm trying to go by the book's descriptions of the characters. Some of them are lacking, of course, but I suppose one can simply fill in the blanks with evidence from the text or imagination. You may see a bit more of the latter category.

* * *

**Chapter I: **On the River

"_But the world is changing. The walls of Minas Tirith may be strong, but they are not strong enough. If they fail, what then?"_

_Frodo Baggins, "The Breaking of the Fellowship"

* * *

_

The graceful leaf-shaped crafts slid smoothly over the water, propelled almost soundlessly by sleek paddles. The passengers and oarsmen were but a small burst of color in the dismally grey atmosphere of the river, though faint that color was.

"Mr. Frodo?" The Halfling's eyes wandered listlessly, unseeingly over the glassy expanse of the water. He had not shifted his position in the boat for some time, and could feel knots beginning to form in the muscles of his legs. He paid them no heed. "Mr. Frodo?" the question came again, more urgent.

Frodo Baggins tore his gaze from the grey face of the water, hastily pasting a warm smile onto his pale features. "Yes, Sam? What is it?"

The plump gardener breathed a sigh of relief, fidgeting with the hem of his cloak. "Well, Mr. Frodo… You haven't moved in a while, and I wondered if you were comin' down sick," he fussed, peering into his master's face with anxious brown eyes. "It's all of this water. We weren't meant to float on top of it, or we'd have been born with webbed toes like ducks." He shot the river a withering look, a scowl on his kindly face.

"Fear not, Master Gamgee." The statement came from the oarsman, the ranger Aragorn. "Unlike ducks, you will not find this boat tipping bottom-up on you." He smiled, the expression contrasting most peculiarly with his weather-beaten, gruff features.

"'T ain't natural," Sam maintained sullenly, settling back in beside Frodo. "M' legs are all cramped up from sitting in here."

Frodo raised one brow. "Would you rather swim?" he chuckled. At the look of abject horror on Sam's face, his laughter only grew broader.

Despite this, Sam felt a small measure of relief. It had been a good while since he'd last heard his master truly laugh. "Well, don't you try it!" he admonished, shrinking away from the boat's edge. "Poor Sam. Drowned by his own master."

"We will toss no one overboard," Aragorn laughed as well, shaking his head at the pair's banter. "Although, he who begins snoring again this night will wake to a most unpleasant surprise involving a freshly caught trout."

Sam spluttered indignantly, obviously attempting to imagine exactly what it was that the ranger was planning for the unfortunate sleeper. Frodo, quite satisfied that he had diverted his almost motherly gardener's attention, turned his attention to the broad, watery road ahead.

For much of their journey on the river, the Fellowship had remained silent, content to dwell within their own thoughts as they paddled quietly along. The silence fell heavily on all, though they were reluctant to break it for fear of an almost physical shattering. Occasionally, Man, Elf, or Dwarf would exchange suggestions, but that had been the limit of any discussion thus far.

It was difficult to count the days they had been on that wide, dreary river. The grey, colorless landscape seemed to blend seamlessly, one hour bleeding into the next. Frodo had long since given up count.

"It's so quiet." The youngest of the halflings in the boat behind, Peregrin, had become tired of the oppressive silence and stillness. "When will we be out of this dreadful place? I would kiss the ground were I allowed upon it, now."

"Perhaps that wish may be granted." The rower of Pippin's boat spoke up, pausing briefly in his work. Boromir's remark was more of a question than a statement, directed at Aragorn. The muscular, richly-clad man gazed questioningly in the Ranger's direction. "Aragorn?"

"Perhaps."

Boromir grunted, seemingly unsatisfied with the Ranger's curt reply. Raking a hand through his dark hair, he took up his oar once again. "We cannot live on this river as fish," he snorted. The Hobbits nodded whole-heartedly.

A sigh escaped Aragorn's lips. "If it is the desire of the Company, we will go ashore."

Murmurs of assent sounded throughout the boats. "Yes, _please_," Pippin groaned, slumping down further, nearly into his cousin Merry's lap. This earned him a cuff over the head from the irritated Hobbit.

"Stay in your own seat," Merry grumbled. "You've got plenty of room."

"Hardly," Pippin muttered.

"I shall drown you both if you start that up again," Boromir warned, his tone vaguely reminiscent of that of a chastising mother.

Pippin offered an impish grin. "Apologies, dear Boromir, but we seem to have you outnumbered."

* * *

Frodo's knees very nearly buckled beneath him as he stepped onto the rocky shore, a dull throb pulsing in his aching legs. He gritted his teeth as he stretched, reveling in the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet.

Behind him, the Dwarf Gimli was hauling one of the boats further onto the ground. "Give me that rope," he grunted, seemingly unaware that his long, rust-hued beard trailed through the lapping waves. It was a most peculiar sight, watching the armor-clad Dwarf lumber through the water.

"As you wish, your highness." Stepping off onto the shore himself, Legolas took up a thin, elegant length of grey Elvish rope and tossed it to his Dwarven companion. The Wood-Elf turned, pushing the strands of dark hair that had escaped his long braid behind one ear. "Aragorn, how long do you plan to stay?" He cocked his head, stepping lightly away from the toiling Gimli.

"Thank you for all of your assistance," Gimli growled, scowling at the Elf's green-clad back.

Ignoring the complaints of the Dwarf, Legolas made his way toward the rest of the Company.

"Will you please gather wood for our fire?" Aragorn inquired, carefully dropping his pack against a large stone. "Samwise can prepare supper, I assume?"

"Not like I'd let anyone else do it," Sam agreed, clutching one of his beloved pots protectively. "Goodness knows what they'd do to it. Good, sensible food. That's what we need."

He went on in a similar fashion for several minutes.

Merry slumped onto the ground, giving it a friendly pat. "Well, dirt old friend, it is certainly nice to make your acquaintance again!" he sighed happily. He was closely followed by Pippin.

"I don't care what it is. Just so long as it's edible," the dejected Hobbit groaned, rubbing his legs.

Despite the vaguely light-hearted attitude of his companions, Frodo was ill at ease, and the whisperings of the Ring around his neck were not the sole cause of it.

The only member of the party who had not joined in the weary yet cheerful banter was the second Man of the Company. Boromir stood silently a ways off, his eyes fixed on Frodo. It was not a menacing glance, but nor was it friendly. It was an unnerving, searching gaze. Frodo could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

"Boromir." Aragorn's voice cut through the momentary staring match.

The Gondorian Man looked up, giving no sign of the previous events between he and the Hobbit. "What is it you would ask of me?" he asked courteously.

Aragorn's eyes were wary. "I would have you accompany Legolas. Do not stay out long."

Boromir nodded once, and strode toward the Elf. "Come, then." With that, he was off into the thick woods. Legolas lingered momentarily, blinking thoughtfully after him. Frodo wondered whether he was put out at being addressed like a servant or a pet. Within seconds, however, he had followed the Man into the wood.

The Ranger stared after them, his face unreadable in the slowly dimming light.

* * *

The Man and Elf walked and worked quickly and in relative silence, preferring to extend the inscrutable silence that reigned between them. By this time, both had gathered a good armful of kindling and a few logs, all dry and brittle from the lack of rain in recent days.

Truth be told, neither had exchanged more than an offer to take the watch or a silent nod throughout most of the journey. Boromir supposed that it was simply a lack of common interests, and his companion's Elvish aloofness besides. "Perhaps we should return. The light is dying." He turned his face to the rapidly dimming sky.

Legolas followed Boromir's gaze, nodding once in agreement. "Indeed." A dry smile tugged at his fair features. "And I hardly wish to be on the receiving end of Master Gamgee's wrath when we return late. A cooking pot to the head could leave a good lump."

Boromir snorted, turning back in the direction from which they had come. His efforts to disguise his fondness for the Halfling were half-hearted at best. "I find it hard to imagine our gardener pitching one of his beloved pots at anyone, let alone an Elf." He had heard the Elf exchange jests with Gimli the Dwarf, but had rarely had one addressed to him.

It appeared that Legolas had lost interest, as he now fell silent as before, and Boromir was once again left to his own musings.

"You truly do care for them, do you not?"

Boromir's gaze snapped to the Elf's face, startled. "I beg your pardon?"

"The Halflings, Merry and Pippin… Sam… Frodo," Legolas said lightly, his own dark eyes still focused ahead. "They are dear to you."

Boromir nodded warily, baffled by this sudden change in subject. "Aye… Why do you ask?"

The gaze now turned to him was strange: frostily cool, yet sad. "You will not allow them to come to harm." Boromir realized absently that they had stopped walking. The Elf's eyes had taken on an almost pleading expression. "Nor will you harm them, though your intentions be noble."

Boromir furrowed his brow. "What are you saying?" he inquired slowly.

He received no reply but for a mournful smile before Legolas moved on.

* * *

"Where could they be?" grumbled Sam, tapping the side of his prized cooking pot. "They left well nigh an hour ago!" If there was one thing he couldn't abide, it was tardiness.

"Patience, Sam," said Aragorn from the rock on which he stood lookout. His pipe was clenched in his teeth, and sweet-smelling smoke ringed his head. "If there is one thing that I am sure neither of them will do, it is abandon us. They must have had a difficult time locating firewood."

Merry grinned suddenly, motioning with his own pipe toward the far end of the camp. "Speaking of whom."

Two familiar figures could be seen emerging from the grey wood, laden down with what promised to be armfuls of wood for a good cooking fire.

Sam 'harrumphed' in slight aggravation as Boromir and Legolas dropped their loads. Gimli roused himself from the ground to busy himself with the campfire. "Any later and we'd have been asleep by the time you got back," the gardener muttered to himself.

He reached for his pack, intent on locating the few scraps of food (or so they would call them in the Shire) he had saved. Though he would not dare allow the larger Man to know, he kept a close eye on every movement of Boromir's.

The Gondorian had crossed the campsite to resume his position at the base of a tree. He took up his sword, an action at which Sam had to suppress a small shudder. To say that he distrusted Boromir was a bit of an understatement.

The Hobbit finished unloading the meat onto a frying pan. Water. He would need water if he were to make a decent stew. He stood with the pot to make for the river.

His eyes slid momentarily back to Boromir. Something about him disturbed the gardener's master. And what disturbed Master Frodo was most often something about which Sam himself should be concerned. Truth be told, there was something shifty about the big Man that Sam found downright queer, but he could not quite put a name to it. Whatever it was, the Hobbit was sure that it would bring them to naught but trouble in the end.

Sam stooped by the water's edge. As the riverbed consisted mainly of gravel and a multitude of small pebbles beaten off of the surrounding rocks, the shallows were relatively clear of the silt that so often polluted moving water.

He briefly rinsed out the pot, then filled it with the cool water. If he brought every Goblin and Orc that ever drew breath down on their heads, Sam would be sure that Master Frodo ate a good, decent meal this evening.

"…So we hid in the closet," Pippin was saying to the Company, grinning impishly. "To this day, I don't believe that he knows it was us that pilfered his cakes."

All chuckled appreciatively. Sam had decided a while back that perhaps it was a good thing after all that they had not tied the young Hobbit up and shipped him back home—he had lessened the tension among the party considerably along the way with his antics and amusing stories. "And you're lucky I didn't turn you in!" Sam admonished half-heartedly, setting the pot over the fire. "Your father would've tanned your hides for sure!"

Frodo shook his head. "I'm sure he still would."

For a moment, Sam briefly toyed with a mental image of an angry Thrain storming up over the hill yonder, waving an empty pie tray at his errant son. Snorting lightly at the absurdity of his own thoughts, he set about adding dried herbs to the now-boiling pot.

* * *

Boromir was uneasy.

He paced the campsite alone, dark eyes flashing in the scant light cast by the dying fire. Young Peregrin had awakened him some time ago for watch, and so he now kept his lonely vigil over his slumbering companions.

Something about this night was all wrong; something made him jump at every slight sound. The air itself seemed to wait with bated breath.

"You seem ill at ease."

Mentally cursing himself, Boromir whirled about to face the intruder. Perched upon a boulder was Aragorn, lighting his pipe. "I do not need my heart giving out on me to add to my list of worries, Aragorn," the Gondorian hissed, broad shoulders slumping in irritated relief. "Why do you not sleep with the others?"

"You can feel the tension in the land, as well." Aragorn's statement was not a question.

Boromir snorted. "Of course. It would take one both blind and deaf to ignore it. We have entered hazardous territory, it is no secret."

Smoke curled upward from Aragorn's pipe as he contemplated the other Man. Boromir schooled his face to stony indifference, though he writhed inwardly under the Ranger's level gaze; why, he could not say. "Indeed," said Aragorn slowly.

'_You and I both know that it is more than that.'_ The statement hung unspoken on the chill night air.

"You should sleep." Aragorn stood, making for the fire. Stooping, he gathered up the last of the fuel and threw it onto the dying blaze. "I will take the watch, now."

Boromir did not protest. He was in no mood to argue with the strange, moody Ranger. His arms cried out for rest from the day's paddle, and he was quite eager to heed their complaint. "Keep your eyes open," he grunted curtly, sinking to the ground beside his pack and shield. "I like this place not at all in the dark."

"And I shall like it no more by the light," piped in the voice of Meriadoc Brandybuck.

"Merry!" Aragorn chided gently. "You should be asleep. Why are you awake at this hour?"

Merry grimaced, shifting uncomfortably on the root-encrusted ground. "You should feel lucky that your hissing and whispering did not wake any of the others up. How am I expected to sleep between your conversation and these blasted roots in my back? It sounds like two snakes are having an argument over there."

Boromir grinned sheepishly. "Many apologies, Master Brandybuck," he chuckled softly. "This snake is heading off to sleep as well, so you need not worry further."

* * *

The sun had not yet cleared the horizon.

A thin shroud of mist hung silently over the dampened ground, shimmering eerily in the blue light of dawn. A soft sigh feathered through the lips of Meriadoc Brandybuck, though it seemed muffled by the uncanny silence of the riverbank. The Hobbit pried a small stone from the rock-encrusted shore and turned it disconsolately in his fingers. Merry had relieved Aragorn of his watch a while ago, and had sat by himself on the riverbank. Within the hour, the remainder of the camp would waken.

Were they bound for Gondor, Merry wondered silently, or Mordor? He had heard whispered arguments between the Fellowship's warriors for several nights. Boromir was, of course, in favor of Minas Tirith, and Aragorn for Mordor, but Merry could not quite tell where the others stood. As for he, himself… He really hadn't the faintest idea. A part of him longed to reach the comfort of a bed and the safety of a house once more, but something else entirely had decided that a straight course would most likely be the wiser of the two.

'_Well,_' he mused, '_I suppose we'll have to decide before we row ourselves right off the edge of the falls._' Drawing back his arm, he cast the pebble into the river.

"Merry?"

Pippin's voice, raspy with sleep, caused Merry to give a slight jump. "Pip? Why aren't you asleep still?"

His cousin scrubbed at his eye with his fist. "Can't," he grumbled. "You're throwing rocks." The younger Halfling pulled his blanket tighter about his shoulders and blinked owlishly through the mist. There were pronounced circles beneath his eyes.

Pippin gathered his blanket about himself and got to his feet, stifling a yawn. He seated himself beside Merry, and the two simply sat in comfortable silence. That had always been nice, Merry decided. If they felt no need to say anything, then they didn't. For all of his foolish antics and jokes, Pippin seemed able to sense when one wanted to be alone with his own thoughts. At times, the mere feeling of companionship was enough.

At last, Merry took it upon himself to speak. A sliver of liquid gold had shown itself over the horizon. "We should prob'ly wake the others," he murmured. Groaning at his aching back, he hauled himself up and made his way to the first bundle of blankets.

The mist began to lift as the sun rose, staining the barren landscape a rosy hue. It did not seem that any in the Company had slept particularly well, as the task of waking them was not difficult to accomplish.

There was no wood left from the previous night, and Aragorn did not seem keen to start a fire. Merry supposed that it made sense, considering they often left almost immediately upon waking. And so, despite Sam's protests, all made do with dried venison and water. As so many of their days had both begun and ended, they sat in silence.

* * *

Gimli chewed thoughtfully on a piece of waybread, watching his Elven companion's sinewy back as he pulled the oars. Legolas had been oddly quiet the past few nights. Quiet and watchful. While this would not usually have struck him as out of the ordinary, he had become quite adept at discerning the Wood Elf's moods. Gimli suppressed a snort. Imagine that. A Dwarf fathoming the mind of an Elf. What a strange place the world had become.

However, irony aside, there was most certainly a tense atmosphere among the Company. In truth, it seemed to Gimli that they had begun to watch one another. They were only small, furtive glances, but they were there nonetheless. The Ring's whisperings were growing in the minds of the Fellowship.

Something odd had been tugging at the back of the Dwarf's mind for some time; a strange dread. He could not seem to put a name to it, though he had tried. It seemed to him a fear that spoke of loss and of sundering. And yet he had been unable to pinpoint exactly what would be the source of such an anxiety.

Lost in his thoughts, the Dwarf did not notice that Legolas had stowed the paddle in order to ride the current and turned toward him. "May I inquire as to the reason that you are attempting to stare a hole in my back?" The Elf lifted one brow, a wry smile upon his lips. "Try as you might, I do not think that is possible."

"I figured it was worth a try," Gimli rumbled, shifting his position in the boat. "After all, I cannot see past you. I wondered what lay ahead."

Legolas smirked and shook his head. "Forgive me, Master Dwarf. I will attempt to be more transparent from now on." He ran his hands absently over the smooth wood of the paddle, pausing to rub out a slight snag with his thumb. "As to what lies ahead, I do not think that you can discern that by looking ahead of me."

In the boat ahead, Merry and Pippin had begun yet another friendly quarrel. Boromir threatened them with the oar as the boat rocked dangerously. "It seems to me that they are the only speck of light in this whole company," Gimli grunted fondly, tugging on his beard.

"Or at least the only ones who will never intentionally harm another."

Gimli shot the Elf a sharp glance. He had felt it as well, then. There was _something_ beneath the surface… and he feared it. Something unnamed, something intangible, but it was there nonetheless. An unspoken menace, a tension. He could feel it as if it were in the very stones he walked upon.

Two boats ahead, Frodo clutched his shirtfront, or perhaps something that lay beneath.

* * *

End Chapter I. 


	2. Westward

**Tarnished Ivory**

_By Yavie_

* * *

Chapter II: Westward

_"The tenth day of their journey was over. Wilderland was behind them. They could go no further without choice between the east-way and the west. The last stage of the Quest was before them."_

_J.R.R. Tolkien, "The Great River"_

* * *

Aragorn had called the swath of green grass Parth Galen, if Frodo had heard him correctly. It seemed a strange blot of color in such a grim, desolate landscape. They had arrived the night before, and now the sun was rising. Most of the Fellowship still slumbered, if somewhat fitfully. Frodo sat apart on a boulder, unable to find sleep. Aragorn stood watch nearby, and though Frodo was turned away from him, he could smell pipe smoke. He was not the only one who had not slept that night.

There would be no more time to stall for a decision, he knew. His thoughts continued to return to Sting, whose blade he had seen glow dimly the night before. East, or west? A decision had to be made, and made swiftly. His eyes drifted to the eastern horizon, where the sky was blotted by plumes of smoke.

"Frodo." Aragorn's voice was soft, though stern.

The Hobbit sighed, staring disconsolately at his hands. "Yes, I know."

"I cannot make this decision for you. We cannot tarry here. You yourself saw Sting's glow last night." There was a sound of striking tinder as Aragorn lit his pipe once more. Frodo turned his head toward the campsite as the Ranger stood and crossed to the dying embers of the fire. The fire reluctantly allowed itself to be prodded back into life with the addition of branches and twigs. Aragorn glanced at Frodo, his eyes like grey steel. "I would ask that you make your decision before nightfall."

Slowly, the Fellowship began to stir back into life. Upon awakening, Sam immediately busied himself with sorting through the packs of food to prepare what meal he could with their limited supplies. He seemed to be the only one of them, however, who knew what to do with himself that morning. Most of the Company simply stood by or paced, unsure of their course or their current purpose. Wood had been gathered the night before, and they were not setting out immediately.

Frodo turned away once more, yet he could feel their eyes upon him. He could hear the unspoken barrage of questions and advice. A dead weight settled in his stomach. Never had he felt so burdened, charged with the fates of so many. He stood from his perch upon the boulder and went to Aragorn. "I am going for a walk," he murmured. "Please allow me some time to decide on my own." Aragorn glanced at him, his eyes strangely soft as he nodded once.

Attempting to ignore the questioning stares that followed him, Frodo wandered off through the trees. The wood was thick, and shortly after leaving the Company, he felt as though it closed in behind him. It was a comforting sort of isolation, yet unnerving all at once. He had never felt so very alone.

He did not know how long he spent simply shuffling through the undergrowth, watching listlessly the movement of squirrels and birds. Minas Tirith… Mordor. He knew the favor of much of the company rested with the route to Minas Tirith, yet he could see the danger in tarrying too long in any one place, even one such as the Gondorian capital. Men were easily bent by the power of the One, though they may have presented themselves as friendly at the first.

Biting his lip, Frodo sat himself on a mossy log. And then, was he so certain that he should stay with the Fellowship? He had felt the strange tension building between them, as though any comradeship they had was walking a thin thread.

"You think to leave us, do you not?"

The Hobbit yelped, startled. He whirled about to face the intruder, only to stare into the dark eyes of Boromir. "Wh… what are you doing here?"

Boromir shrugged, an amiable smile upon his weather-beaten face. "You have been gone for a long while, Frodo Baggins," he chided. "I was afraid for your safety. That, and we have run out of firewood." He indicated the few logs he toted in his great arms.

Frodo resisted the urge to draw back as Boromir moved forward. He did not know why, but something about the Man had always struck him as off. Warily, he tried to return Boromir's friendly smile, though it came off as somewhat sickly. "I am sorry. I did not mean to stray far. I have been thinking. Did Aragorn send you after me?"

Shaking his head, Boromir sat on the log and gingerly set the wood at his feet. "Nay, I volunteered to find firewood. It was by mere chance that I happened upon you. Your gardener is becoming anxious," he laughed. Frodo felt himself relaxing. The Man did not seem to be in one of the strange, solemn moods that sometimes gripped him.

"Forgive me. I… am still quite lost," the Hobbit said softly. "I know not which route to choose, and so many are depending upon that choice."

"Well," said Boromir slowly, examining Frodo's face with unreadable eyes. "You know what I would say. Much of the Company would say the same. I must say to you, Minas Tirith would be perhaps the wiser choice. It is an admirable thing that you would think to leave us and strike out on your own, but you must remember that we are only here to aid you. If we make for Minas Tirith, then there will be more to aid you. If you so desire, our quest can be kept secret. We will re-supply, learn of the doings in the world. If you were to set out for Mordor on your own, there would be no help for you. You would have to journey alone, unaided in the worst conditions imaginable."

Frodo was silent, staring at the ground. The way the Man said it, the western route seemed so much more rational. He almost felt a fool for even thinking of setting out on his own. He did not quite trust Boromir, yet he knew that what the Man said was sensible, and that many of his companions were in agreement. "Yes, I know. But with such a strange Company, there would be no secrecy were we to go to the city."

Boromir nodded slowly. "Yes, this is true. If our errand is discovered, however, the Men of Gondor are of a resilient sort. They would not stoop so low. They have no love of Mordor, and they will aid you in whatever way they can," he said. His voice still held its tone of cool logic. "I would ask that you think on it carefully, Frodo Baggins." With that, he stood.

Frodo watched as Boromir disappeared into the thick woods.

* * *

"I wish he would hurry up," Merry groaned, flopping backward onto the ground. "I don't know if I can stand this any longer. I would so love to head out to Minas Tirith, but I'll happily trot off to Mordor if he just hurries and decides." He had been groaning and sighing and flopping irritably to the ground for the past hour.

Sam gnawed anxiously at his already-tattered fingernails, watching the wood for any sign of his master. He disliked letting anyone go off on his own, let alone Frodo. What if something had happened? What if he had been attacked? Questions ran through his head, each detailing a direr fate for Frodo than the last.

There came a sudden rustling from the trees, and Boromir stepped out into the camp, laden down with an armful of firewood. The Company seemed to radiate disappointment that the forest had not yielded Frodo. Boromir, noticing their stares, smiled. "Master Baggins should be coming about in a moment. I passed him not far from here."

Aragorn immediately seemed to jump, clenching his pipe in his teeth. "You passed him? Did he say anything?" It seemed to Sam that there was no more trust in Aragorn for Boromir than there was in a cat for a hound. The Ranger was forever watching the other's movements with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

Dropping his load of firewood, Boromir set about bringing the dying fire back to life. "No more than he has no doubt already said to you. He is confused, and does not know where to turn. I do not blame him. It is a great weight that you have set on his shoulders." His tone was almost accusatory. "A little advice might be of great aid to him, Aragorn."

Aragorn opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a snapping of twigs from behind him. Everyone turned to look, and Frodo stepped from the shadows of the trees, his eyes averted against the expectant stares of his companions.

Tense silence fell among the company. Sam felt a great wave of pity for his master. Imagine, having to make such a decision. Frodo glanced up, and looked at Aragorn. "I have decided," he said softly, almost inaudibly. "I am sorry if it does not please all, but it seemed the wisest decision to me." All were silent, and Frodo said nothing.

After what seemed like ages of watching and waiting, Gimli finally stirred. "Well?" he said gruffly. His voice seemed oddly loud in the fragile silence. "Get on with it, lad."

Frodo swallowed, then looked into the faces of his companions. "We shall go west," he almost whispered. "To Minas Tirith. To re-supply. To learn what we can of the road ahead. We can make for Mordor from somewhere safe."

It almost seemed as though the tension was let out from the air in a sudden rush of wind. Merry and Pippin breathed a simultaneous sigh of relief. It was apparent that his answer had been the one that much of the Company had been silently praying for. Sam was pleased, as well. He had heard nothing good of Mordor, and a brief respite from journeying would be welcome.

Aragorn's face was unreadable. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was pleased with the decision. "Very well, Frodo Baggins," he said gravely. "We shall make for Minas Tirith. Come what may, we will abide by your judgement."

His words seemed to deaden the very air.

By nightfall, the Company was swiftly rowing down-river. It was a relief to all to have a firm idea as to their destination, and the oars had been taken up with greater enthusiasm this night than any before. Each of them had found the decision to move westward to be a welcome decision. Boromir laughed and joked with the Halflings in his boat, spinning them yarns of the great feasts to be had in Minas Tirith.

"Now, stop that!" Merry cried. "You'll make my mouth water enough to flood this boat!" Boromir tipped back his head and laughed merrily.

"It's good to see everyone in such a fine mood, ain't it?" Sam said, looking at Frodo. "I think you made the right choice."

Frodo nodded, watching his companions and biting his lip. Yes, he would have liked to think so wholeheartedly. It was far too early to say, however. "I hope so, Sam," he murmured. "I certainly hope so."

"Perhaps there is no correct decision." Aragorn had been silent for much of the night's journey. "Perhaps we have simply chosen the lesser—or greater—of two evils. Only time will tell. Nevertheless, we will trust your judgement, Frodo. It is you, after all, who must bear this burden. Whatever this route may bring, we will aid you."

Frodo, though still troubled, felt the tension in his chest lessen somewhat. Yes, they would simply have to take each obstacle as it came.

The Fellowship rowed onward through the night, until steadily the sun made a rare appearance from behind the horizon. The landscape had been clouded and dreary for so long that the sun almost made the dismal woods welcoming and bright. The oarsmen paddled steadily onward, never stopping or slowing, the sun strengthening their resolve to move forward.

They ate of the _lembas_ bread given them in Lothlorien, and rested briefly, drifting with the current. Aragorn had said that they would row into the night, then spend the night on shore. Frodo found himself wishing that they could haul the boats onshore immediately. His left foot was asleep and his legs ached terribly.

Hours wore by with what felt like all the speed of water running uphill in the winter months. Finally, as the sun was sinking, Aragorn called from the foremost boat that they would pull up onto the shore.

* * *

"I thought you said that your preferred route was that to Minas Tirith." Gimli prodded at the fire, adding another log.

"I did." Though it was not his watch, Legolas was awake this night. He sat cross-legged at the base of an ancient oak, absently rubbing out a snag or a spot on his shoe. Though he would not say so, Gimli was glad for the company. He liked not the woods lining the river, and liked them less by night. It eased his mind somewhat to have use of an extra pair of eyes and ears.

The Dwarf sat upon a rock, puffing at his pipe and staring into the black night. "Then why is it that you seem no happier with this decision?" he asked, squinting at his companion's face through the flickering firelight. "You seem no less troubled than you did before the decision was reached."

"It is not the decision that troubles me." As per his usual manner, Legolas's replies were clipped and gave little of his thoughts away. "Yet I think that perhaps what does trouble me may yet come to light with this route." His hair was a dark mist that shrouded his eyes from Gimli's vision, though Gimli was certain that having sight of his companion's eyes would not aid him in discerning the Wood Elf's thoughts.

Gimli nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "I see," he grunted. Perhaps it was that strange tension that still lay beneath the surface. However, he knew that he would get no more out of the Elf this night. Legolas never gave any more than he wanted to, no matter how much Gimli pried and prodded. "You will wear a hole in those if you keep doing that."

"What?" Legolas glanced down at his shoe. "Ah."

Snorting, Gimli shook his head. He glanced at the shapeless lumps of the slumbering Fellowship. "It is Aragorn's watch."

"Let him sleep." A smirk twitched at Legolas's lips. "I know he has not slept these past two nights, though he would like to believe that none of us have noticed. I will take the next watch."

"I do not think I could sleep this night if I tried, and I will have you know that it is entirely your doing," Gimli growled, scowling good-naturedly at Legolas across the campfire.

"_My_ doing?" the Elf laughed softly, raising one brow. "How is your inability to sleep my doing?"

Gimli pointed the stem of his pipe threateningly. "You with your talk of troubles and tensions and dissatisfaction. I shall be considered lucky if I manage to sleep a wink without my train of thought running away with me."

An odd smile touched Legolas's face. "Perhaps, then, it is for the better."

* * *

"We will row as close as we may toward Rauros," Aragorn muttered around breakfast the next morning, tapping a rather weather-worn map. "And then we will take the portage-way of the North Stair to the foot. From there, we will continue down the Anduin to Osgiliath."

Nods of silent assent went around the Company as they gnawed at dried venison and waybread. Clouds obscured the sun this morning, and the land seemed grey and muted. However, spirits were still high among the Halflings, who looked forward to a decent bed and meal.

"Boromir, what is it that you plan to do once we arrive in Minas Tirith?" Aragorn inquired after a moment.

"Plan?" Boromir furrowed his brow, glancing at the Ranger. "We are to travel to Minas Tirith. We have already planned that leg of our journey." Truthfully, he disliked speaking to Aragorn. He always felt as though he were being examined too closely for his liking. Never before had he met a man so grim or so moody.

Aragorn shook his head. "No, how shall we go about entering and exiting Minas Tirith? It would not be good, I think, to enter to trumpet-call and parades. Ours is an errand of secrecy." He paused briefly to glower at the tough piece of dried meat that he was attempting to tear. "Where do you think we will stay? From whom will we ask for aid, and from whom will we keep our mission?"

Warily, Boromir stared at the Ranger. This was another of his verbal traps; Boromir was certain of it. However, he was not so easily ensnared into looking the fool. "My father will arrange quarters for us, of course. None that do not need to know shall know. When you have lived in a city all of your life, you learn ways to slip in and out in relative secrecy." He could not help but allow himself a proud smirk.

"Your father," Aragorn hummed quietly, his face, as usual, set in an inscrutable scowl. He did not seem in the mood to press the issue farther, however. He fell silent and set to grappling with the difficult strip of venison he had been handed.

This day would be their last on the river before the journey down the North Stair, if Boromir was any judge of distance. The Company finished their meager meal swiftly and set about re-packing the Elven boats with what little luggage they carried. Perhaps the portage would be a welcome respite from the journey on the river, Boromir mused. The Halflings had no love of the water or of boats, and Boromir himself had grown weary of pulling oars and cramped legs.

"You have rowed for days without respite." The voice near his ear was unexpected, and Boromir checked himself before he jumped out of shock. "Perhaps you should take some rest, Boromir. Exchange places with Gimli, and he may row the Hobbits' boat for a while, and you may rest in our boat." Legolas spoke over his shoulder as he tossed packs into one of the boats, his voice carefully nonchalant.

Boromir blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. None had offered him aid before, and he had never needed it. Why, then, should the Elf be so eager to allow him to rest? The Gondorian shook his head slowly. "Nay, Legolas. I should think that Aragorn would be more in need of rest than I am." He stared warily at Legolas for a moment, then took his place in the boat with Merry and Pippin. Legolas returned his gaze unabashedly, his head tilted thoughtfully, before turning to tend to his own craft.

The boats slipped easily into the river, and they were off. The current was strong this close to the falls, and rowing was not difficult. Boromir nearly forgot his unnerving encounter with the Wood Elf as Merry and Pippin begged him for more stories of Minas Tirith. He told them of his brother, of grand banquets, and of chivalrous deeds done by soldiers whose bones had long since crumbled.

Rauros's roar grew ever louder and more insistent. Silver mist swirled about on the horizon, shimmering in the scant light cast by the clouded sun. With every stroke forward, Boromir could feel his heart lighten, yet his mind seemed to grow heavier. An odd, tugging insistence gnawed at the back of his thoughts. His eyes strayed toward the lead boat, in which Aragorn sat with Sam and… Frodo. The Man's eyes narrowed. There was yet time. Yes, there was yet time in which he could convince them. They would see reason soon enough.

"It will destroy us all," they said, over and over again. He knew better. They were simply being obstinate and foolish, needlessly following the words of Wizards and Elves who barely troubled themselves with the affairs of mortals. Yet, he would not take. No, that was below him. He would simply persuade. They would see reason.

"Boromir?"

The Gondorian shook his head lightly, then turned an amiable smile on the Halfling. "Yes, Pippin? What tale would you have next?"

Pippin shrugged eagerly. "Anything at all. It does help to pass the time."

Boromir pondered this for a moment, tapping his fingers on the smooth wood of his oar. "Perhaps a story of my brother, then?" he suggested.

Both Hobbits nodded eagerly, their faces shining with childish delight. It was often difficult for Boromir to remember that they were, in fact, almost adults, themselves. "Well, then," the Man began. "This particular tale begins on a summer's day, when my dear brother took it upon himself to prepare a midday meal for our father…"

* * *

End Chapter II.


End file.
